


april is the cruelest month

by cosmicwoosan



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Heartbreak, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of Death, Mild Sexual Content, Panic Attacks, Poetry, Sad Ending, Secret Relationship, depends on how you interpret it, prince!seonghwa, read with caution, royal tutor!hongjoong, this is actually pretty sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27811795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicwoosan/pseuds/cosmicwoosan
Summary: The moon shined so brilliantly that night, observing carefully as Hongjoong’s new life began. It was a life of stone and glass, of gold and silver, trinkets and other sparkling things that hung from every ceiling, every wall, adorned every square inch of the castle, reminding Hongjoong that he was nothing in comparison.And in the middle of it all stood Prince Park Seonghwa.
Relationships: Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 15
Kudos: 92





	april is the cruelest month

**Author's Note:**

> hiya! here's some seongjoong angst for ya. there's this song my friend showed me years ago and i've been wanting to write a fic for it, and well, here it is. i'm not used to writing royal aus so this was definitely a new pool to dip my feet in, and it may be a bit rusty, but i hope you enjoy the ride nonetheless!
> 
> the song is called 'april is the cruelest month' by the airborne toxic event. highly recommend listening!
> 
> i also want to put a disclaimer here: the ending is open IF you view it that way. however, because it can be interpreted in different ways, I want to put a trigger warning here. if you're triggered easily, i advise you tread this fic carefully.

There is a river bordered by mountains of stones and lush greenery that splits the land into what Hongjoong calls the “In-Between.” Where the land of royals and the land of the peasants merge but not entirely. Where there is a town home to those who belong to neither side, littered with gardens and huts and cheerful children frolicking about. Hongjoong is one who has traversed all three lands, an estranged traveler of sorts, though his titles have certainly changed over the moons.

He had his beginnings in a quaint village on the far end of the river, where it was rare for such peasants to be able to read or write. They catered to the royal folk’s taste buds, indirectly clothed them, and, as Hongjoong came to realize, were the reason the royals could exist in the first place. He was a bright young man, as the village elder discovered once he’d come across little Hongjoong by the river, drawing symbols with a stick.

“Child, where did you learn those?” the elder had asked him.

“I saw them on a piece of metal, sir,” Hongjoong had answered. “At the center of the village.”

At the center of the village was a post that criminals were tied to before their punishments. A form of public humiliation, Hongjoong would come to learn, before the ultimate punishment was carried out. On the slate of metal read, “Here lies the vermin to be purged of all of his sins.”

“They punish the bad guys there,” Hongjoong had said. “That’s what this means.”

A simple deduction. But Hongjoong had been the only child to take any interest in what the plaque said in the first place.

So the elder took him under his wing for the next fifteen years, until his timely death finally met him.

And that was when Hongjoong ran.

He ran and ran, his bare feet staggering across soil and mud, over uneven grass and stones, a bag of books slung over his shoulders. Where he was running to, he had no idea. But he continued to run because there was nothing left for him where he’d come from.

The rain soiled the pages of his books, rendering the ink hardly legible. But when the cloud would depart, Hongjoong would find means of retracing over the faded letters. Sometimes, he would rewrite them completely, and create works of his own.

One of those works was discovered by a wandering member of the royal kingdom across the river after Hongjoong had made the fortuitous mistake of leaving his pages unattended one evening. When Hongjoong returned, a man draped in gold and white was flipping through the pages. He’d raised his head at Hongjoong’s approach and saw the tattered rags the young man had for clothes, raising his eyebrow at the quite obvious peasant.

“Your name,” the man had requested in a simultaneously gentle and assertive voice. He was young, Hongjoong thought. Couldn’t be too much older than him.

“H-Hongjoong.”

“And where do you hail from, Hongjoong?”

“A v-village. Over the river.”

“A peasant village?”

Hongjoong winced.

“Y-yes sir.”

The man glanced down at Hongjoong’s work, then back up. “Do tell me, is this your work?”

“Yes, sir.” It took everything for Hongjoong not to stutter again.

“Peasants do not read or write.” The stranger said it like it was a fact, and it very well would be one, had it not been for the village elder. “At least, not any who are as young as you.”

“I had a teacher.”

“An elder?”

Hongjoong nodded. The man’s brows creased upon his forehead, in careful consideration. He was holding Hongjoong’s work so delicately, like it was something valuable.

“You must be a very gifted youth.”

“O-oh, sir, I… would not go as far as to say that.” Hongjoong’s face felt hot, as if he were a spectacle in the middle of his village, body bared and tied to a post.

The man sighed. “If I am being honest with you, I do tire of calling your class ‘peasants.’ You are just as capable and talented as royalty.”

Something about his words made Hongjoong’s eyes well up with tears, which the stranger had hushed away as he guided Hongjoong further down the river, farther away from his home. The moon shined so brilliantly that night as she gazed upon them, observing carefully as Hongjoong’s new life began.

✣

It was a life of stone and glass, of gold and silver, trinkets and other sparkling things that hung from every ceiling, every wall, adorned every square inch of the castle, reminding Hongjoong that he was nothing in comparison.

Stepping onto the stone of the kingdom was nothing like stepping onto the jagged stones that marred his feet. The stone pathways were smooth and cool under his feet, a breath of relief upon the soles. As dirt and grime stained Hongjoong head to toe, he was a dark contrast to the lively throng of kingdom citizens, donned in suits, gowns, flared sleeves and leather shoes, suede, and everything else that wasn’t whatever Hongjoong was wearing. He was a speck of dirt in the middle of a pristine white cloth. He wasn’t worth the ground he walked upon.

The stares spoke louder than any words. An eerie silence washed over the citizens as the man guided Hongjoong further into the kingdom, a sea that parted for the timid, soiled boy and the esteemed member of the royal kingdom. From confused to disgusted, Hongjoong ignored all the stares, keeping his eyes and focus on his feet stepping over the stones.

“My boy, you may, if it makes you more comfortable.” The still-stranger held out his arm for Hongjoong to take. He took it reluctantly, as if it were to lash out at him.

The guards at the royal gate eyed the pair suspiciously, lances in hand. Hongjoong grimaced at the thought of one skewering his body.

“Sir, what is that?” the guard had asked, pointing at Hongjoong.

_What. That._

“ _He_ is a peasant boy from a village over the river. He is literate.”

The two guards exchanged a look. “And what purpose do you have for bringing such vermin here?” the other one asked, sneering in Hongjoong’s direction. Hongjoong’s grip tightened on the man’s robe.

“As I said, he is literate. He does not belong in a peasant village.”

“Who says?”

“Says I,” the man asserted. “Do not tell me you have forgotten your own roles in this palace.”

The guards remained stoic-gazed, though Hongjoong could see annoyance flash in their eyes.

“Let us proceed, then,” the man said as the gates finally parted for them.

“What exactly am I doing here, sir?” Hongjoong whispered.

“You are being protected.” The man fixed his gaze in front of him. “Literacy and intelligence must be protected.”

“But… the elder…”

“Some village elders prefer to live their lives at their birthplaces to teach those who are willing to learn,” the man said. “But not all peasants have the passion or desire to learn when all they are good for is labor.” He’d spewed the latter part, like the words tasted bitter. Like they weren’t what he believed.

“Sir… f-forgive me for asking, but what is your name?”

A question that Hongjoong would have asked sooner, had it not been for his fear.

The stranger smiled down at him as they reached the final step of the incline.

“My name is Yunho, royal advisor of the Park Palace. Please, do feel free to call me just that.”

✣

As if Hongjoong were either a precious treasure or a dastardly secret, Yunho took him to his very own quarters. It seems as if the passersby they encountered on the way were not members of the royal family, lest Yunho be stopped and interrogated. Hongjoong was instructed to bathe and make himself look as presentable as possible. Still quivering from both fear and hunger, he stepped into the warm bath, feeling as if nails were digging into his skin. He’d been so used to the rainwater chilling him to the bone and rendering his clothes dirty rather than clean. This was certainly new.

The tepid warmth was almost painful.

A set of clothes was laid out for him, a simple white tunic and beige trousers, though the downy fabric felt like lightning over his skin. His old clothes were nowhere to be seen.

Yunho arrived ten minutes after Hongjoong had changed. “Hongjoong.” His voice was firm, steady. No longer draped in robes, he donned an outfit similar to Hongjoong’s.

“Why am I here?” Hongjoong blurted.

“Ah. Forgive me for not telling you my intentions.”

“You said that literacy and intelligence must be protected. What did you mean by that?”

“I meant exactly what I said,” Yunho said. “Education in its rawest form is hard to find. And when I came across your work, I was astounded. To think, that came from a peasant villager… I almost couldn’t believe it.” He sighed, smiling as he shook his head. “I am trying to rid myself of the rhetoric the kingdom likes to drill into people’s heads. That peasants are all uneducated, filthy scum.”

Hongjoong’s lip curled in distaste, eyes narrowed. “In its rawest form?”

“Ah, well, I mean… the ability to read and write, but to be able to _think_ and _create_ as well. I have never seen anything quite like your works, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong’s scowl deepened. “Given the chance, any _peasant_ could be in my position right now. But education isn’t offered to them, right? Because all they’re good for is _labor._ ”

Yunho’s face fell then, hearing his own words repeated back to him. Though he may have disagreed with the words, Hongjoong could still see it in him, how Yunho was raised royally, still had that rhetoric engraved in him despite his attempts to destroy it.

“Unfortunately, Hongjoong, that is the way things are. If it were in my power, I would make sure every single human being on this planet could read and write.”

His voice sounded oddly genuine. Even so, Hongjoong was still wary.

“What am I doing here?” he asked. “Why did you _really_ bring me to the royal palace? Surely it was not just for ‘protection.’”

“Well, that would be half right,” Yunho said. “The royal Prince is in need of a tutor. The last one… is no longer here.”

Hongjoong winced.

“The Prince has a quite… puzzling taste. We’ve reached out to all sorts of scholars throughout the kingdom and there are none he has approved of. He’s turned away every single one.”

Hongjoong raised a brow.

“And what makes you think he’d want to be tutored by a peasant?”

Yunho sighed.

“The worst he could do is turn you away.”

“That didn’t answer my question. If the Prince turned away true scholars, why on earth would he waste his time with some lowly peasant like me?”

Yunho closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

“Your mind, Hongjoong. It speaks. The Prince… needs somebody with a mind of his own.” He stared, unwavering. “Now, we must go. It’s time to meet with the Prince.”

✣

Hongjoong had always been too occupied with his studies to learn about the ones that ultimately rule over the village. There had been times where the elder took him under a hatch built into his cozy little home, when the bad guys were taken care of or the clash of armor rang through the tiny village like thunder. Hongjoong had always been shielded from those kinds of things. The elder claimed that it was best if he didn’t know of the atrocities that came with being who he was.

‘Who he was’ meant being a poor boy with no family and rags for clothes, muddy fingers and a filthy face.

So he had entered the palace without knowing the names of the royal family. It was safe to say he did not feel like he was in the place to be the ‘royal tutor,’ whatever that title entailed.

Now that Hongjoong was well-dressed, the wanderers of the palace paid no mind to him. In a way, he was grateful. In another, he was disgusted.

It took climbing three grand staircases, wider than the expanse of five tree trunks, to reach the balcony, where the midday sun spilled over glistening marble and stone. There, before the railing, a person stood in gold and white, hands clasped behind his back. His hair was a deep black, the darkest contrast to the heavenly sight that unfurled before Hongjoong’s eyes.

“Your Highness,” Yunho said.

“Yunho.” The Prince, Hongjoong surmised. Even his voice sounded royal, deep, melodious. And somewhat melancholic.

“I have brought you another candidate for the royal tutor position.”

The Price sighed heavily. “Yunho, how many times have you brought forth ambitious scholars and teachers, and how many did I turn down?”

Hongjoong looked up at Yunho, face set in stone. 

“Prince Seonghwa, please. It is a position that needs to be filled.”

“It’s not like I can’t read, Yunho. I do not need someone to read to me, or read _for_ me.” The Prince, Seonghwa, finally turned on his heels.

A perfect face for a perfect human being living in the perfect palace.

Hongjoong stood there, shell shocked, as the gates of heaven opened for him. The epitome of beauty stood right before him, big, round eyes and plump, rosy lips. Waves of hair fell over his forehead like vines, and his jaw appeared cut by the gods with the utmost precision.

“Who is this?” Seonghwa asked.

“This is Hongjoong,” Yunho said.

Hongjoong’s heart did a leap in his chest as he bowed deeply. “Your Highness. An honor to be in your presence.” He wasn’t entirely sure of what to do in this situation, so he did what he assumed would be acceptable. Royal people liked being worshipped, right?

“And I reiterate, who is this?”

Something sordid churned in Hongjoong’s stomach. He was well aware he did not have the riches Seonghwa had. There was no need to remind him of his insignificance.

Yunho looked at him, a sorry expression crossing his face. “Your Highness… he is not from the kingdom.”

Seonghwa’s perfectly trimmed eyebrow raised. “A neighboring kingdom? A nearby town?”

Yunho hesitated.

“A peasant village, Your Highness,” Hongjoong answered for him. “And believe me when I say, I do not know why Yunho brought me here for such a position.”

To Hongjoong’s surprise, Seonghwa’s expression didn’t change much. No eyebrow raise, no apparent aversion. Just a stagnant stare in Hongjoong’s direction.

“Prince Seonghwa, please allow me to explain—“ Yunho tried.

“You brought a peasant to tutor me,” Seonghwa stated, eyes shifting to the advisor. “How daft are you?”

Hongjoong’s eyes widened.

Seonghwa.

_To be a star._

What an ironic name, Hongjoong thought.

“Your Highness…” Yunho’s voice was losing its resolve.

“To be a star,” Hongjoong said suddenly.

Both Yunho’s and Seonghwa’s heads turned. “What?” the Prince said.

“Your name. That is its meaning. ‘To be a star.’” He swallowed as he noticed Seonghwa’s glare turning more scrutinizing, maybe even hostile. His head was spinning. He could feel the sweat forming on his fingertips. Seonghwa’s eyes were near menacing, peering into his soul, or lack thereof.

There wasn’t much a peasant had to offer, after all.

“And what about you, Hongjoong?” The Prince asked. His voice did not match his eyes.

Gentle. Curious. Warm, even.

“What is the meaning of your name?”

Hongjoong frowned. “That doesn’t matter, Your Highness.”

“As if mine does?”

Confused, Hongjoong struggled to find the words to respond with, but Seonghwa only smiled, a half-smirk as he turned back around to face the sun.

“To become a star… thank you for letting me know. You may leave, now.”

Hongjoong looks back up at Yunho, bewildered.

“Let’s go, Hongjoong,” the taller said, taking hold of Hongjoong’s arm and tugging him along.

When Hongjoong glanced back over his shoulder, there stood an angel, poised and faceless, a blazing star in the middle of a world too bright for him.

✣

Hongjoong was given his own quarters to stay in, a humbly decorated room furnished with a bed draped in crimson sheets, a vanity, dresser, a mahogany nightstand, and a miniature chandelier suspended from the ceiling. It was more than Hongjoong ever had. He almost felt guilty for sitting on the bed. It was everything compared to the dusty mat he’d slept on back at the village, like he was sitting on a cloud instead of the jagged point of a cliff.

He looked at himself in the mirror and didn’t recognize what he saw. Never had he even looked in an actual _mirror_ , it was always a distorted reflection of himself in the rippling waves of the river, or the occasional blurry image in dull metal at the village. It was as if he was looking at himself from the outside. In a different body, observing himself.

“Your duties will commence tomorrow morning,” Yunho told him. “When you wake up, report to the dining hall, and I will meet you there.”

“Where is that?”

“If you exit your room and turn right, continue straight until you reach a corridor with two sets of double doors. It’ll be past the ones on your right. I look forward to seeing what you’re capable of, Hongjoong.” With a slight bow, Yunho left Hongjoong to himself.

Never in his life did he have to walk gilded halls full of color and shiny stones, or worry about directions through a winding palace, or have to report to a dining hall that was past a set of double doors on his right. The village was small, smaller than the size of one floor of the palace. He knew his way around the area like the back of his hand.

And now, in a space much too large for someone like him, he was alone, confused, and mortified.

But he thought to himself, he had always been alone. Except this time, he was surrounded by wealth. At least when he was at the village, everybody was equal. Equally poor, equally filthy.

But perhaps not equally intelligent, or literate.

Hongjoong took a deep breath, ignoring the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach and collapsing back onto the downy pillows.

✣

The dining hall was nothing short of the overall grandiosity of the palace—another marvel to gaze upon and gape at its size. A long table sat at the center, festooned with silver cutlery and glass plates, some sort of candle structure at the center, and a white cloth embellished with gold. Platters of fruit and bread and meat were laid out along the expanse of the table, more food than Hongjoong had ever seen all at once. An entire feast unfurled before his eyes, full portions instead of mere morsels.

“Hongjoong, good morning.” Yunho’s gentle voice greeted him from the opposite end of the dining hall as he walked through another door. Somebody was holding the door open for him, presumably a housekeeping staff member. “I trust that you slept well?”

Hongjoong forwent the fact that he did not actually sleep that well because the bed was too comfortable. “Yes,” he answered.

“Good, good. So, do feel free to help yourself.”

“Is no one else eating at this time?” Hongjoong asked.

“Everybody has set schedules for eating. And only designated members of the palace are allowed to eat in the dining hall.”

“But I am not a member of the palace,” Hongjoong pointed out.

Yunho chuckled. “I am, and therefore, you get special permission.”

Hongjoong did not share the same cheerful, witty sentiment as Yunho, but he tried his best to smile.

There was so much food that Hongjoong didn’t even notice that some _was_ missing from the table, albeit just a few pieces of fruit and meat. Not all the platters were full, but in Hongjoong’s eyes, they may as well have been. Yunho ate with him, and Hongjoong was careful to observe the manner in which he ate—poised and proper, knife and fork, one bite at a time, meticulous mastication.

It was painful, just like bathing and sleeping were.

Hongjoong ended up not eating much because his stomach would not allow it. With each bite he took, he could feel the filth in him swirling everywhere—not just his stomach, but the blood that coursed through his veins. Each bite of food was a reminder that he didn’t have this to begin with, and that he wouldn’t have it if he weren’t here. But of course, were he to lose his meal right in front of a member of the palace, he wouldn’t have a place at all. They would probably have his head.

Their dirty plates were left on the table for someone else to clean up. Hongjoong felt guilty as he followed Yunho out of the dining hall and into another long hallway adorned with tapestries and curtains and paintings of scenery that reminded him of where he came from. Beautiful yet ruthless nature, used as an aesthetic. Hongjoong felt sick.

The hallway branched off into a left and right path at the end, and at the merging point hung a painting of who Hongjoong assumed to be the king and queen. Yunho took him left. There were several doors on either side of the next hallway they traveled down, and Hongjoong wondered where they led to.

Their destination ended up being a library, two floors high of bookshelves that reached the ceiling. The second floor was simply another layer to the first; one could easily step off the second floor and land either dead or mangled on the first. A gruesome thought. Hongjoong made a note to tread carefully.

“San!” Yunho’s voice echoed off of the books.

The scrawny man stood ten rungs up a ladder, fiddling with the books on the top shelf. He started with a gasp, hand clutched over his chest as he turned around just enough to come into view. “God, Yunho! You need to learn to _warn_ people of your entrance!”

Yunho guffawed as he led Hongjoong further into the library. San climbed down from the ladder to greet them. “Is this the tutor you’ve been telling me about?” San asked.

“Yes,” Yunho said. “San, meet Hongjoong. Hongjoong, meet San, the palace librarian.”

“Quite a useless position,” San murmured, smirking. “Nobody comes through here. Well, the Prince does sometimes, but he already knows what he wants when he comes in and he doesn’t stay.”

Hongjoong gazed around the enormous room and wondered which books Seonghwa had read and how many words the room contained.

“You will be spending a lot of time in here,” Yunho said.

“Reading?” Hongjoong asked.

“Of course. There is content to be learned and taught.”

“You said so yourself, Prince Seonghwa comes through here often. He knows how to read. Why would he need somebody to tutor him if he has all the access to the curriculum?”

Yunho and San exchanged a brief glance. “Hongjoong, the Prince is… how can I say this? He lacks inspiration and motivation. He may be able to read and write, but such abilities are useless if he does not put them into practice,” San explained.

“San, I may be able to read and write, but there are topics that I am not knowledgeable on, such as history, or math, or—”

“He has learned all he needs to learn in those realms, Hongjoong. What he needs is philosophical stimulus.”

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Subjects such as math or history consist of topics that are already known and practiced. They have been written about and recorded in countless books. You learn those, and they will always be there. But to _think_ is an entirely different concept. He can learn all the history and math he wants, but if he can’t think for himself, he may as well be a hollow shell. He needs to be able to think and create.”

“And why does he need help doing that?”

“Like I said, he lacks inspiration and motivation,” San continued. “There are an infinite amount of stories and poems that could be created because there are an infinite amount of word patterns to be strung together. Prince Seonghwa—”

“—is not an author or a scholar or a philosopher,” Hongjoong finished for him. He could feel his impatience growing, a sapling becoming a tree. “I’m sure he has more significant matters to tend to, being the Crowned Prince and all. Why on earth would he need to write?”

“I didn’t say he needs to write. I said he needs to _think_. Authors are people who write their thoughts down. People read those thoughts, well, people who _can_ read, and thus begins an everlasting chain of inspiration. From one work grows another, and another, and another. What Seonghwa needs to do is read, talk, and _think_. He needs someone to guide him through that.”

“San and I are firm believers that thinking is the most important part of being alive,” Yunho added. “If he were to act as if he were a Prince, and _only_ a Prince, someone with duties and obligations and treaties to uphold and people to execute and so on and so forth, he will go mad.”

“Surely his father is doing just fine,” Hongjoong thought aloud.

Yunho chewed his bottom lip as San’s eyes fell to the floor.

“His father is a tyrant,” Yunho mumbles, barely above a whisper, as if the air would hear his words and whisk them away to the Prince’s ears. “An absent one, at that. I’m sure Prince Seonghwa doesn’t even know his whereabouts, and he’s been the one watching over the palace _and_ the kingdom in his father’s place.”

“The Queen?” Hongjoong questioned.

“She’s here, but without the King, she remains out of sight, and therefore, out of mind. His Majesty made it so.”

“God, that’s awful.”

“There are many who worry that the Prince will end up like his father someday, which is why he needs someone like you,” Yunho said with some sort of finality to his words.

“Someone like me?” Hongjoong still didn’t understand.

And then, as if the gods wanted nothing more than for Hongjoong to not know the answer to his question, the large wooden doors creaked open, and there stood the angel from the previous day, dressed similarly.

“Well, I am here,” the Prince said. “Let us begin.”

✣

Yunho and San left Hongjoong and Seonghwa to their “tutoring session” and Hongjoong wanted to disappear into thin air. He’d just gotten there yesterday and was thrown into a position he was not at all prepared for. There was nothing for him to study or read or think about when he was too busy trying not to feel the pain of unfamiliarity from being in such a place.

It was as if Seonghwa could feel his thoughts. He sat in a crimson suede armchair, legs crossed as he gazed out the window at the meadow behind the palace. Not a garden, but an entire _meadow_ , a seemingly endless sea of greenery, flawlessly trimmed and catered to as spring had finally arrived. He had the slightest of smirks on his face, fingers toying with his square-cut chin.

“So, Hongjoong. You hail from a peasant village, no?” the Prince spoke, a hint of amusement to his tone.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“I’m wondering why Yunho thought it would be a good idea to bring you of all people to ‘tutor’ me. Would you happen to have any idea?”

Hongjoong did his best not to wince.

“Yunho said it had something to do with my mind. He read my works.”

“Your works?”

“I write.”

“So let me see, then.”

It was then that Hongjoong realized his works were no longer with him. Whether Yunho took them for safekeeping, confiscated them, or if they were, god forbid, _lost_ , Hongjoong didn’t have them with him.

“I don’t have them with me.”

Seonghwa’s eyes narrowed as he turned. “So how am I supposed to know your abilities?”

Hongjoong couldn’t help his eyes from narrowing back.

“My abilities exist within me, Your Highness. My work is simply my abilities written onto paper with ink.”

Seonghwa’s chin lifted, eyes returning to their normal width. He turns back away to look at the meadow again.

“Are you saying that I will get to know your abilities through other means?” he asked.

Hongjoong shrugged, unsure if Seonghwa would see him do it. “If I am here long enough, then perhaps.”

“Where would you go if not here?”

“To the In-Between.”

“The In-Between?”

“It is a place where the river meets all three lands. The poor, the wealthy, and the, erm, in between. You have the peasants, where I came from, the townspeople, those who have enough in their lives to get by, and the royals, the people from the kingdom. There is a river that somehow converges the three levels of monetary and social class, and that is where I spent my time prior to coming here. Where Yunho found me.”

“You were not at your village?”

“It is not my village.”

“But it was where you lived, was it not?”

“I did once, yes. But that village did not belong to me. It was merely a place at which I slept and studied. I would hardly call it a home.”

“If the village did not belong to you, did you belong to the village?”

Hongjoong frowned, ivy curling around his throat.

“Your Highness, I have never belonged anywhere.”

✣

Their session lasted one hour, though it dragged on for what felt like days. The sun was still bright and open when they concluded. Seonghwa stood up and adjusted his blouse before turning to Hongjoong with an unreadable expression.

“I will see you tomorrow,” he said.

There wasn’t much they’d done; most of their time was spent in awkward, brooding silence. Hongjoong hadn’t read a single palace book and surely Seonghwa was still wary about having a peasant sitting across from him. But he was admittedly surprised that the Prince did not send him away immediately.

Hongjoong watched, flabbergasted, as Seonghwa strode away. The doors parted for him like the gates of heaven, like the Red Sea, like he was a god that controlled everything in his way.

And Hongjoong thought to himself, the only things that belonged to him, were no longer with him. And without them, he was almost nothing.

As Hongjoong lay awake that night, he gazed out at the vastness of the royal night sky and wondered if the elder was somehow up there, parting the gates of heaven like they belonged to him.

✣

Hongjoong tried to read the books at the library. He truly did. With San’s help, he’d amassed a pile of books that piqued his interest from the first few paragraphs, but as he chipped away at passages and words written by other people, he began to think. And think.

At one point in time, someone invented a word. People learned that word and used that word in their works. More people read those works, and learned those words, without knowing who that word belonged to. And that was the cycle of belonging.

Perhaps Hongjoong belonged somewhere at some point in time. But there were so many other people who belonged to so many places that Hongjoong became lost, just like the words became lost in a sea of other words.

He was just another word that lost its belonging.

When Seonghwa arrived for the session, he plopped down on the same crimson armchair and asked, “What is the lesson plan for today?”

“The cycle of belonging,” Hongjoong said. Seonghwa raised a brow at him.

“Elaborate.”

So Hongjoong regurgitated his thoughts to the Crowned Prince, who stared at him the entire time as if he were a madman. And Hongjoong was content with that, because to him, being a madman did not matter as much as belonging.

“Do you belong here, Your Highness?” Hongjoong asked. “Is this palace your home?”

Seonghwa blinked at him. “I can’t think of any other place I could belong to.”

“And this palace belongs to you. Therefore, you wield it.”

Seonghwa frowned. “You speak as if I own the entire world, Hongjoong.”

“Because you very well may, Your Highness.”

Seonghwa tilted his chin up. It seemed he did that when he thought.

“I only own the world I am in, Hongjoong. Not the world I am on. There are many things that belong to me, and many things I belong to.”

“You do not seem like the type of man who would belong to anything,” Hongjoong said. He didn’t mean it condescendingly, though perhaps he meant it a bit pessimistically.

After all, Seonghwa had everything in comparison to him.

“I belong to this kingdom. To the people. To honor, faith, loyalty, and respect. The things that belong to me are things I can fit in my hands. You may think that this palace belongs to me, but in actuality, I am a slave to its walls. At least you were free to roam, Hongjoong. To that place you call the In-Between, across the fields and rocks and rivers. The only times I have traversed the land were for affairs regarding my status here at the palace. A Prince. One who rules. I have never once been free.”

Hongjoong gaped at him, feeling something sour coiling in his chest.

Seonghwa let out a deep sigh as if the words stole all his breath. Hongjoong could imagine they did.

“I am not saying we are equals, Hongjoong. It is quite evident that we aren’t. But in no way are you my prisoner, or my slave, or my servant.”

“Is that why I am still here? Because I am not your equal?”

Hongjoong wondered what the previous scholars and teachers looked like and where they came from and why Seonghwa decided to turn them away. The only difference he could think of is where he’d come from.

“I do not know why you are still here, if I am being honest,” Seonghwa said.

“Then why did you turn away those who are actually educated? Those who are truly qualified to teach?”

“There is nothing they could teach me that I haven’t already learned or could learn on my own, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa said. “They would read the words written by other people and repeat it back to me. They would follow a curriculum. You, on the other hand, taught me the meaning of my own name without me even having to ask.”

Hongjoong found himself at a loss for words. Words that belonged to other people. Words that weren’t his, but when strung together, perhaps they could be.

_The cycle of belonging._

“And so I ask again, Hongjoong, what is the meaning of your name?”

Hongjoong steeled his breath.

“And so I say again, Your Highness, it does not matter.”

Seonghwa scoffed. “I am beginning to think you do not know the meaning of your name.”

“I do. But I will say time and time again, it does not matter.”

Seonghwa sighed and shook his head.

“Hongjoong, your name is the only thing that will truly belong to you. It was given to you. If you so desired, you could have any name in the world. But no matter what, it will always be _your_ name. Even if another person has the same name, the name will still belong to you.”

“My name was not given to me.” Hongjoong’s insides felt hot, like a lightning storm was brewing within. “If you want to know so badly, my name means ‘to be the center of a wide world.’ I chose it myself because I was born without a name.”

When Hongjoong thought about it, perhaps Prince Seonghwa was right. Had he been named by somebody else, that name would belong to whoever named him. Those words existed, and Hongjoong strung them together to form a title for himself.

The name truly did belong to him.

“Is that what you are, Hongjoong? The center of a wide world?”

“Of course not,” Hongjoong answered. It almost felt like a stab to the gut, a quick and patronizing remark. “I named myself something I could never be.”

“And I could never be a star, Hongjoong. But that does not make my name any more or less significant. It is a name, one that belongs to me. And yours belongs to you. The name has its meaning, and that meaning is yours. You are your name. And therefore, you are the center of a wide world.”

Hongjoong had it in him to laugh.

“And what world would that be, Your Highness?”

Seonghwa smirked.

“It would be yours, Hongjoong.”

✣

The routine became nearly mechanical; Hongjoong would wake up at the slightest bit of sunshine, eat in the dining hall alone, make his way to the library where he skimmed passages that did not belong to him, wait for Seonghwa to arrive, “tutor” him, and then spend the rest of the day trying to immerse himself in others’ knowledge.

The books in the library were starting to give him a headache. When he asked Yunho what happened to his works and the single bag he had to his name, Yunho shrugged.

“Maids enter unoccupied rooms to clean up. Perhaps… that is what happened to your old belongings.”

Hongjoong gritted his teeth, figuring that by now, his “old belongings” were a lost cause, especially in an enormous place like this.

As a condolence on Yunho’s behalf, Hongjoong was provided with paper and ink.

And he began to write.

 _The world I am on versus the world I am in,_ _  
_ _The eye in the cycle of belonging_ _  
_ _where nothing belongs to me_ _  
_ _and I belong to nothing._ _  
_ _O, worlds! Where is my body?_ _  
_ _It is mine, is it not?_ _  
_ _O, worlds! Where is my name?_ _  
_ _I was led to believe it is mine!_ _  
_ _But in the end_ _  
_ _I am nothing, nothing, nothing._ _  
_ _This world I am on,_ _  
_ _this world I am in_ _  
_ _do not exist_ _  
_ _for I am nothing._

✣

There was one day in particular that broke Hongjoong’s routine. He exited his room and found several staff scuttering about the hallways, carrying miscellaneous items, bellowing instructions on where to put things, et cetera. The chaos of it all was unfamiliar to Hongjoong, in the palace or not.

He learned that Seonghwa’s birthday gala was tomorrow night, and because of that, the Prince would not be attending the session.

San sat with him in the library instead. It was raining outside, and the downpour itself sounded like thunder.

“I hope tomorrow will be a better day,” San lamented.

Hongjoong took one look outside and thought about the day he’d lacerated the bottom of his foot by landing too hard on a rock that was too sharp. It had been raining then, too. It left an ugly scar, one that didn’t hurt anymore, but it made Hongjoong sad, that the rain could wash away so much but not the evidence of pain.

“What month is it?” Hongjoong asked. Having been casted away for so long, the concept of time was practically nonexistent.

“April,” San answered.

Hongjoong hummed. The flowers danced in the violent wind. _They are brave_ , Hongjoong thought, _for humans would never_.

✣

That night, Hongjoong was called to the balcony, the very one he’d first met Seonghwa on. The rain had since calmed, and it was just the Prince, the meadow below, and the oceanic sky.

“I do apologize for skipping the session.” Seonghwa turned around at Hongjoong’s footsteps. “My mother insists on having celebrations for the darndest occasions.”

Hongjoong made a noise of amusement. “I’d imagine the day of your birth is quite a significant occasion, is it not?”

Seonghwa smiled and shrugged. “In the end, it is just another day.”

“A day that belongs to you.”

“Perhaps. Come, Hongjoong.” Seonghwa extended his arm. Confused, Hongjoong stepped forward until Seonghwa lowered it, and by then, they were standing side by side. The Prince was only slightly taller than him, but appeared even bigger. “It will be my mother’s first time out of her chambers since my father left.”

“When did your father leave?” Hongjoong asked, feeling a chill coursing down his spine.

“There was still snow on the ground. I believe it has been two or three months.” Seonghwa let out a weary sigh. “He has been gone for longer, before. There was a time where he was absent for two years of my adolescence handling affairs in five neighboring kingdoms.”

“ _Five_?”

“His work is extensive. And even as his son, I do not understand a lot of it.” He chuckled spitefully. “There are times I wish I was not born into this life. But alas, it is the life I’ve been given.”

“It must be hard,” Hongjoong said, not knowing what else to say.

“I know you hold resentment towards me because of my status, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa snapped suddenly. “Do not think I am so clueless. We come from very different backgrounds, I am aware. If it satisfies you, I will no longer bemoan my life.”

“It does not matter to me either way, Your Highness,” Hongjoong said. He was tired, and wanted to sleep. “Whether you talk to me about your life or not, nothing changes the fact that we do indeed come from different backgrounds. It is not that I hold resentment, it is that I don’t understand. And it is the same way around. I will never understand you, and you will never understand me, and it does not matter if we do or not.”

Hongjoong’s chest twisted in weighty knots that he tried to swallow. Nothing would go down.

Seonghwa exhaled into the beautiful night. His breath mingled with the rain-ridden air.

“You will attend the gala tomorrow,” he said.

As a command or a question, Hongjoong didn’t know, but he felt like he didn’t have much of a choice, anyway. Of course he would go.

✣

He was provided with clothes much tighter and much grander than his usual wardrobe, though still a step down from Yunho’s white and gold garb. He was given a blazer along with his tunic this time, crimson, similar to the armchair in the library. San wore a similar outfit, though his blazer was a deep plum instead.

The grand hall was nothing short of monstrous. It was hard to breathe even in such a wide open space, seemingly big enough to fit a thousand. Circular tables were scattered throughout, though a long strip of carpet split the hall in half. It reminded Hongjoong of the river.

A musical ensemble was playing to his left. Everywhere he looked, there were people in gold or white or red, or varying shades of them. Lined eyes, blushed cheeks, powdered faces… it was everything Hongjoong imagined a royal party would look like.

Most people were sitting at their designated tables chatting amongst themselves, some were standing in clusters off to the side, some were helping themselves to the food on the buffet table stretching across the right wall. Yunho guided him and San to a table, where there were already three others.

“Yeosang, Wooyoung, Jongho. This is Hongjoong,” Yunho said. “And Hongjoong, this is Yeosang, Wooyoung, and Jongho.”

There was no way of telling their positions just by looking at them. They were all equally beautiful, radiating the same royal energy that Seonghwa gave off. Lightly lined eyes, shimmering lips, and golden skin. Jongho was the first to stand, a burly yet baby-faced man in a pristine white suit.

“You are the new royal tutor, correct? It’s nice to meet you.” His hand was strong and calloused, Hongjoong noted. Perhaps a military expert.

Yeosang and Wooyoung acknowledged Hongjoong with a bow of their heads, almost simultaneously. “Wooyoung is head of the kitchen staff. Yeosang is head of combat,” Yunho told him. He frowned, glancing around. “Where’s Mingi?”

“Getting food,” Yeosang answered.

“Ah. Well, normally, Mingi would be here. He’s the royal family doctor. Whenever there are galas like this, the palace staff are assigned tables, and we’re usually stuck together, every single time,” Yunho explained.

“We’ve grown quite close because of it,” Jongho chirped up.

“What is your position?” Hongjoong asked.

“I work closely with Yeosang. Where he is head of combat, I am head of weapons.”

Hongjoong made a mental note not to anger them.

When all introductions were said and done, Hongjoong indulged in the admittedly delectable food Yunho retrieved for him. The guilt he felt while he ate was still there, but it was dwindling as the routine made it easier. He tuned out of the royal staff’s conversations, focusing on the bites he took instead.

_This food does not belong to me._

At some point, Mingi had returned with two plates in his hands and two on his forearms, piled high with meat and vegetables and fruit. Hongjoong mumbled his introduction and ignored the doctor’s puzzled eyes, though Mingi was only momentarily distracted, and proceeded to dig into his meal. All of the commotion surrounding Hongjoong started to congeal into meaningless noise until it fizzled into an incessant buzz, one that vibrated off of his ribs and made his ears tingle. He wanted it to stop.

Then, a chime. The music halted. The people stopped talking. When Hongjoong looked up from his half-eaten meal, there stood the angel at the far end of the hall, atop a miniature flight of stairs. Beside him stood the Queen, in a glimmering gold gown, arm linked with his.

The only difference Hongjoong could distinguish was that the Prince Seonghwa standing before him was truly the _Prince_ , in his flashy gold and white, rosy cheeks, lined eyes, and glossy lips. Not the simple angel Hongjoong knew within the confines of the library, dressed in a similar tunic to his, troubled and trapped.

Here, it seemed as if Prince Seonghwa was in the element he was made to be in.

There was a speech given by the Queen. Hongjoong tuned out again, eyes scanning the room as he wondered who the immediate royal family actually _knew_ , and who were just there by association. There was no way of telling; they all appeared the same. And he appeared just like them.

He suddenly felt sick, like the lavish food in his gut decided that his insides were just as unworthy as the rest of him.

Seonghwa began to speak. Something about being grateful for having so many people here tonight to celebrate the day of his birth, how honored he felt for leading such a magnificent kingdom filled with honorable people, words that were his and not his at the same time, that belonged to him but didn’t.

Hongjoong finally looked up to see Seonghwa smiling and waving as the crowd burst into applause. His hands remained by his side as he wondered what that smile meant.

The entire night carried on like that—Hongjoong stayed rigid in his seat as the tables around him conversed and Seonghwa made his rounds to greet everyone and thank them for coming. Hongjoong didn’t eat another bite of food and had three sips of water and one of champagne before he finally excused himself, abandoning the main hall for the comfort of the spring night.

He stopped by his room for his precious paper and pen before making his way back up to the balcony. The moon was full, and the angel was nowhere to be seen.

 _April;_ _  
_ _The month of the holy angel,_ _  
_ _Golden, majestic, loved, and proud,_ _  
_ _he stands at the altar and smiles_ _  
_ _and dips his hands into the blessed water_ _  
_ _and sips it from his palms_ _  
_ _and then frowns for a moment_ _  
_ _before turning back around_ _  
_ _and smiling again._

✣

“It is just another day,” Seonghwa had said. Hongjoong didn’t believe him for a second. Not the day of, not the day after, not the week after.

“How many years have you belonged to this world, Your Highness?” Hongjoong asked as Seonghwa read a book San had picked out for him.

“It would be twenty-three, now. And you, Hongjoong?”

“I don’t know,” Hongjoong answered. “Perhaps around the same.”

Seonghwa looked up from his book, confused. “You don’t know?”

“I was an orphan, Your Highness. The only thing I know is my name.”

“There is plenty more you know, Hongjoong. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

“That’s the thing, Your Highness. I know how to read and write. I know how to walk and talk. I know _how_ to do those things, but as for the things I _know_ , the only thing I truly know is my name.”

Seonghwa closed the book.

“But you know mine,” he said.

Hongjoong thought back to the gala.

“No, Your Highness. I don’t.”

✣

The days grew warmer and the meadow grew grander. There were seven gardeners from what Hongjoong noticed; he watched from the library as they spent every waking moment trimming the overgrown bushes, watering vibrant flowers and planting new ones, wandering the pathways. They looked like worker ants, dressed darkly under the sun. None of them were angels.

Seonghwa read while Hongjoong thought. That was how most of their sessions went. They talked sometimes.

“Do you still resent me, Hongjoong?” Seonghwa asked one overcast.

“I never resented you, Your Highness.”

“Mm.”

“Why do you insist that I resent you?”

“It is natural for the poor to resent the rich.”

“You are so daft, Your Highness.”

Seonghwa looked up, face crossed between surprised and offended. He set the book down, pages-down.

“You are the first person to say that to me.” His voice was rugged, stern.

Hongjoong shrugged. “Your Highness, I have nothing to lose but my life.”

Seonghwa raised his chin, his expression softening as he leaned back in the chair. “You say that as if I would execute you for calling me daft.”

“You have the power to.”

“And that, Hongjoong, is why I insist that you continue to resent me.”

Without another word, Seonghwa stood up and stormed out of the library, leaving his book face-down on the armrest. It looked pathetic, split apart like that.

Hongjoong sighed and marked the page, closing the book and setting it down on San’s desk.

✣

Seonghwa did not show up for their sessions for the next three days.

On the fourth day, Hongjoong saw Seonghwa not at the session, but in his room after he returned from the library, sitting on his bed.

“What are you doing in here?” Hongjoong demanded.

“Do you truly believe you are nothing, Hongjoong?” Seonghwa asked, clutching a page.

Furious, Hongjoong lunged forward and snatched the page from the Prince’s hand. The Prince did not resist in the slightest.

“Before you say anything, do remember that this is my palace, and I am free to roam wherever I please,” Seonghwa said.

“And you had said that this palace did not belong to you,” Hongjoong all but snarled.

“Do you resent me, Hongjoong?” Seonghwa asked.

“What if I do, Your Highness? What will you do if I say that I resent you?”

To Hongjoong’s utter disbelief, the Prince _smiled_.

“Well, there is nothing I _can_ do, Hongjoong. Those are your words. I cannot take them away from you.” Seonghwa stood up. “I will see you tomorrow, then.”

Bewildered, Hongjoong watched the Prince exit his chambers, mouth agape, nothingness crumpling in his hands.

✣

“Are you but a masochist, Your Highness?” Hongjoong had the nerve to ask. “Do you _wish_ to be resented?”

Seonghwa chuckled. “I am sure that there are people who resent me, but only so many would say it to my face.” He looked at Hongjoong, hair swept across his forehead. It got longer, Hongjoong noticed. “If there is anybody I would love to be resented by, it’s you.”

✣

One night, Hongjoong sat in his room with a book under a serene candlelight when something slid under his door.

_Meet me on the balcony. -S_

It was raining. The balcony was shielded by a dome-shaped roof, thankfully, though Hongjoong was still wary as he climbed the stairs.

Humid air clung to Hongjoong’s exposed skin as soon as he reached the opening. There stood the dark angel, clouded by the night and rain. Even in his immaculate white tunic, he was dark through and through.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, turning around to meet Hongjoong’s eyes.

“What is it that you summoned me for?” Hongjoong asked. He made sure to keep his distance, two bodies away.

“I want to apologize for invading your space.”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed. “It was foolish of me to think I could rummage through your things just because the palace was free for me to roam. It was… a dishonorable thing of me to do. And believe me Hongjoong… it is in my best wishes to not be resented by you.”

“Why does the opinion of someone as lowly as me matter to you?”

Seonghwa let out a deep breath. Rain was pouring down all around him, falling off of the arch of the dome, giving him a grainy background as opposed to the blinding sunlight that granted him his usual angelic appearance. He seemed much more melancholy like this, vulnerable, even. He stepped closer to Hongjoong, one body apart instead of two.

“What will it take for you to realize that you are not as lowly as you think you are?”

Hongjoong startled, his first instinct being to step back, feeling as if Seonghwa was dipping his toes into the pool of his self-loathing. It made something grotesque bubble up in him, freezing him in place after that one step back. He found himself at a loss for words.

“If you resent me because you are poor and I am not… I wish for you to find a different reason to resent me. What I have does not speak to who I am. Do not confuse the two,” Seonghwa said. His chin was tilted down this time, his eyes appearing fiercer than ever before.

“Your Highness—”

“Do not call me that anymore.” Seonghwa sighed. “Call me by my name. You know it, don’t you?”

Hongjoong gasped silently.

“Yes, Y—Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa smiled.

“There, Hongjoong. You now know my name.”

✣

Seonghwa’s notes became more frequent.

Sometimes, Hongjoong would return to his chambers after spending an entire day at the library and find the note by his feet as soon as he walked in. Other times, he would be in his room already, a note would slide under the door, and when Hongjoong opened it, there was not a soul to be seen anywhere in the hall. It was as if the Prince was a mere shadow, an everlasting one, a ghost that lurked in the walls of his own prison.

All of the notes instructed Hongjoong to meet Seonghwa on the balcony, always at night. Hongjoong would go every time. Sometimes, they spoke of nothing and let the increasingly warm air nip at their skin and gazed up at the sky and its stars, visible or not. Sometimes, they spoke of the cycle of belonging and the upcoming summer and Seonghwa bragged about how beautiful the garden got and Hongjoong would listen and acknowledge him with the occasional hum. While their rendezvous were admittedly mundane most of the time, Hongjoong couldn’t help but feel like listening to Seonghwa speak was like listening to a song.

There were songs that Hongjoong liked and ones he didn’t. But they were songs nonetheless, whether they were background noise or meaningful sound, and it was more than he was ever used to. He was used to trickling water and the breeze rustling the trees and the occasional rainfall. They were records on repeat, and Hongjoong grew sick of them.

Seonghwa’s songs contained ups and downs, inflections and cadences and _words_ and Hongjoong found himself mesmerized by the time the mosquitoes made their timely appearance in May.

“Let us meet in my room from now on. The mosquitoes do annoy me so,” Seonghwa told him as they watched the sunset from the balcony for the last time.

“Are you sure, Seonghwa? S-surely people would grow suspicious seeing me going to your room at late hours—”

The Prince cut him off with a hum as he nodded. “Nobody would dare say anything to me no matter how suspicious they became.” He turned to Hongjoong and smiled softly, lips like blossoming flowers. “I would not give them the time of day, anyway.”

Hongjoong gulped silently and nodded to assent. Seonghwa regarded him with a smile before turning back to face the sun that rivaled his very presence.

✣

 _The sun_ _  
_ _‘Tis blinding, is it not?_ _  
_ _But you know how life fares._ _  
_ _‘An eye for an eye’_ _  
_ _The sun stares_ _  
_ _and the sun stares back_ _  
_ _and everyone is left blind._

✣

Seonghwa’s bedroom was not unlike the rest of the palace in terms of decor. It was about four of Hongjoong’s bedrooms big with three massive arched windows on the farthest wall. There was an adjacent bathroom home to a tub that might as well be the river at the In-Between, scrubbed to perfection. It was as if Seonghwa was never here, so neat and untouched.

Hongjoong’s first visit there was awkward to say the least. The entire time, Seonghwa sat at his desk reading while Hongjoong stared at a blank piece of paper, pen in his hand, but no words would come out. Once again, he was at a loss for them. It was then he came to realize that the only time he could not find words was when there was somebody near him that could take them away.

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa said. “What was your life like prior to coming here?”

Hongjoong’s heart jump-started as he glanced up from the empty page.

“My life, present or past, is none of your concern.” Perhaps it came out more hostile than he intended.

“Ah.”

“Seonghwa, why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you spend your time talking to me?”

Hongjoong forced himself to meet Seonghwa’s eyes. They were watching him, confused. They wanted to know what Hongjoong’s eyes looked like before he could sleep in a warm bed with a solid roof over his head.

“I am simply… interested.”

“Interested? What, to know what the life of a peasant is like? Why on earth would you want to know that?”

Seonghwa sighed. “There it is again, Hongjoong. Why must this be about class? Not once did I mention anything about peasantry; I merely asked you what your life was like prior to coming here. No ulterior implications.”

Hongjoong glanced away, chewing on his bottom lip. When he thought about it, it seemed as if Seonghwa only showed signs of annoyance whenever he mentioned class. He sighed.

“You know some things.”

Seonghwa nodded. “You mentioned that you were an orphan, that you chose your own name.”

“Yes. I have no clue who my parents were, if they were members of that village or not. I know nothing about the time before my mind began forming memories.”

“Who raised you?”

Hongjoong hesitated. “Nobody in particular. The village kind of raised me as a whole, before the village elder. He was the one who taught me how to read and write. When he passed… I ran away from the village.”

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “Why did you do that?”

“There was nothing left for me there,” Hongjoong whispered, eyes falling to the carpeted floor. “My entire youth was spent under the elder’s watch, under his roof, his protection, his knowledge. He kept me hidden, like I was some kind of secret. They held a grievance ceremony for him, and that was when I ran away.”

“Did they not notice your absence?”

“They knew me as a disciple, not a successor. I was not going to take the elder’s place. They did not even know my name. My disappearance meant nothing.”

“So… the only people who knew your name were…”

“The elder and I.”

Hongjoong looked up. Seonghwa was still watching him curiously.

“Do you see now why I say that I do not belong anywhere, Seonghwa?”

He watched Seonghwa swallow, eyes fluttering shut.

“Yes, Hongjoong. I see.”

A pause.

“Hongjoong… how did you come to be the elder’s disciple?”

Hongjoong couldn’t help but chuckle at the memory. “He saw me attempting to read the plaque in the center of the village. It was an execution post. As a child, I watched people scream and writhe while tied to that post, and the next morning, they would be gone.” Seonghwa nodded, like it was nothing new to hear. “I guess I was the only child in the village who showed an interest in reading. Most of the villagers, no matter the age, couldn’t bother with literacy, since their hands were always filled with labor.”

“He saw something special in you,” Seonghwa said.

Hongjoong scoffed. “I will say this time and time again, Seonghwa. Any child could have been taken under the elder’s wing.”

“But it was _you_ in the end, Hongjoong. _You_ are the one he chose. Why do you continue to act like your existence _could_ have been anybody else’s?”

“Because that is how life is, Seonghwa. Everything could have been something else.”

Seonghwa sighed. He sounded tired. “You worry too much about what could have been instead of what _is_. Perhaps that is why you are so troubled, Hongjoong.”

Again, Hongjoong’s brain was swimming in an ocean of words that would not come together. They fell into another hefty silence until Seonghwa said, “Hongjoong, please allow me to apologize for the way I behaved towards you in the beginning.”

In all honesty, Hongjoong had almost forgotten Seonghwa called him a peasant upon sight.

So he nodded instead of replied.

✣

“Tell me about your life.”

Seonghwa looked up from his book, an inquisitive expression on his face. “You want to know about my life?”

“I told you about mine. It’s only fair.”

Seonghwa chuckled and placed his book down. “Well, it’s quite dreary, if I’m being honest. My father is still technically in power and will be until the day he can no longer function. My time here is spent making sure that everybody in the kingdom is fed and protected. I’ve handled some foreign affairs in the past. I study, read, travel… and that’s about it.”

“That’s it?”

“The life of a Prince is not as exciting as you think it to be. The only time my life would get exciting is if there is war, which there hasn’t been in several years. The last time there was a war, I was too young to even comprehend my duties as Prince. My father… although he may seem ruthless, he is a well-renowned leader. He tries to keep things as peaceful as he can.”

Hongjoong frowned.

_I thought he was a tyrant._

“Do you wish he would come back?” Hongjoong asked.

Seonghwa paused. “Some days.”

“Some days?”

“He is a good leader,” Seonghwa said, “but I did not say he is a good father.”

Ah.

The puzzle pieced together in Hongjoong’s mind.

 _Do you love your father?_ he wanted to ask.

In fear of the answer, he locked his mouth shut and threw away the key.

✣

When Hongjoong spent time in Seonghwa’s room, he found himself feeling as if he was in another world, one where his life wasn’t his life and was instead somebody else’s, somebody who didn’t have the name Hongjoong, somebody who never once had to worry about going hungry or not having shelter or being illiterate. When Hongjoong was with Seonghwa, he was everything _but_ , and it was terrifying when he had to return to the loneliness of his own room, even though he’d spent much longer without one.

At some point, Seonghwa must have noticed Hongjoong’s apprehension when their nights came to an end. There was always a moment of hesitation before Hongjoong left for the night, where he thought that _maybe_ Seonghwa would ask him to stay.

The first time he did, it was a _blazing_ summer night in July. Muggy and warm, Hongjoong’s room was an intolerable sauna, while Seonghwa’s room remained temperate and mild because of its higher elevation.

“Feel free to stay,” Seonghwa invited, adding a nod of the head to affirm his offer.

Though Hongjoong didn’t exactly feel free, he did feel relieved as he crawled into Seonghwa’s bed.

“Where are you going?” Hongjoong asked, noticing the Prince dressing himself.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back. Sleep.”

Hongjoong watched Seonghwa leave, but before he did, he stopped in the doorway and regarded Hongjoong with one last look before disappearing into the hallway.

The next morning, Seonghwa was beside him, back facing away. The morning was much tamer, but Hongjoong felt no warmth radiating from the sun.

✣

The next palace celebration took place in August. No matter who Hongjoong asked, he never received a definitive answer as to _why_ , but then he remembered Seonghwa telling him that the Queen threw celebrations for the darndest reasons, so he gave up on trying to find out why.

He was much readier this time around, having lived at the palace for a few months. The food was digested more easily, the clothes fit him better, the air was cleaner and the sky was brighter. Summer had never been so bright to Hongjoong.

The difference between this gala and the last was that Seonghwa was not the center of attention this time around. It was just a gala. Pretty people doing pretty things and eating pretty food while listening to pretty music. Seonghwa was just one of those people, standing in a sea of wealth and jewelry that was worth more than his entire life. Hongjoong found himself mesmerized, watching the Prince as he meandered through the sea. It parted for him because he could make it happen.

The others at his table were too occupied being drunk and merry to notice Hongjoong staring at the Prince. Ultimately, it was Hongjoong who snapped himself out of it, excusing himself from the table with a mere nod before leaving the hall for the balcony once more. There, he shrugged off his blazer and sat down on the stone, allowing his shoulders to relax.

“August,” he whispered to the summer evening. “A calm before a storm. Before the snow may come. Before the trees begin their inevitable descent. Or do they ascend? Do they die and go to heaven? Or do they bleed their leaves in vain?”

He sighed. The trees and flowers were still bountiful.

“Do you talk to yourself often?”

Hongjoong gasped, springing to his feet instinctively. There, the Prince stood in all of his beauty, rendered blue by the silvery night sky. He was looking at Hongjoong with a smile.

“I… um…”

Again, wordless.

Seonghwa chuckled as he approached. “Your words… your mind… you are incredible, Hongjoong.”

A heat wave washed over him as Seonghwa finally stopped his stride right next to him. It was almost unbearable, that heat. Hongjoong’s heart sped up, skin pricking with sweat.

“Talk to me more,” Seonghwa said, low and mysterious. “Tell me what is on your mind.”

 _August._ _  
_ _A calm before the storm,_ _  
_ _before the snow may come,_ _  
_ _before the trees make their inevitable descent._ _  
_ _Or do they ascend?_ _  
_ _Do they die and go to heaven,_ _  
_ _or do they bleed their leaves in vain in_ _  
_ _a festival for the human eyes,_ _  
_ _wondrous colors_ _  
_ _of death._

Seonghwa breathed in deeply, and the wind followed.

“It is a sad spectacle,” he whispered.

“Autumn is the saddest season,” Hongjoong said. “Everything starts to die. At least in the winter, everything is dead. But in autumn, everything _starts_ to die and the pain doesn’t stop until it’s over. Until autumn is over and winter begins. Three long, torturous months of pain.”

“But it all comes back in the spring,” Seonghwa said. “Everything comes back to life.”

Hongjoong couldn’t argue with that. He supposed it would make sense, that some sorry excuse for a royal tutor and a prosperous Prince would have opposing viewpoints. After all, Hongjoong was the one who spent the four seasons alone, in the cold no matter how hot it was, rotten and pathetic, without a roof to his name.

“With death comes beauty, I suppose,” Seonghwa thought aloud. “The trees die and it’s beautiful.”

“Very few will bother to watch the leaves grow,” Hongjoong added, “but many will watch them die.”

“How sad.”

“Very.”

 _How sad indeed_ , Hongjoong thought.

✣

A storm ravaged the land in mid-September, the worst one Hongjoong had ever witnessed in his life. The staff struggled to shut the windows after the first few gusts of wind. The doors to the balcony rattled in fear. Thunder roared and torrential rains spilled all over the flora, still green with life. When Hongjoong looked outside, he saw virtually nothing. The rain masked it all.

He was in Seonghwa’s room once again, his thin frame shivering. As the air grew colder and the days grew shorter, Hongjoong’s body found itself having a mind of its own.

 _This is what you are, what you will always be._ _  
_ _A cold, sad man_ _  
_ _bearing limbs and nothing more,_ _  
_ _shivering in the sun._ _  
_ _Breathing_ _  
_ _Breathing_ _  
_ _Breathing_ _  
_ _Drowning_ _  
_ _Drowning_ _  
_ _Drowning_ _  
_ _In the sun_ _  
_ _In the rain_ _  
_ _In the snow_ _  
_ _You. Will. Drown._

“Hongjoong?” Seonghwa’s concerned voice put a stop to Hongjoong’s incessant thought. He slid beside Hongjoong, hip to hip on his bed. “What’s wrong?”

_I am drowning._

Speechless. Wordless. Water engulfed his lungs as he fell into Seonghwa’s chest, gasping for air as the Prince coddled him like a child.

“Shh, there, there.” Hongjoong felt Seonghwa’s breath on his head. Lips. The Prince’s lips were on his head, kissing it. “It’ll be alright, Hongjoong. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

Hongjoong let his tears fall, a salty ocean evaporating into the sun, and yet, Hongjoong was still so cold.

Seonghwa was the one to wipe his tears. Seonghwa helped him move onto the pillows and under the covers, whispering words that might have been his, pulling Hongjoong’s body closer. Seonghwa’s lips grazed over Hongjoong’s forehead before he pressed a kiss into it.

_Cold, cold cold._

Hongjoong was smothered in the Prince’s presence, that angelic sun, and still, he was so cold. But Seonghwa’s embrace was so tight, so caring and _loving_ and Hongjoong could feel the shivers subsiding as his eyes slipped shut.

“You’re okay,” Seonghwa whispered.

 _Cold, cold, cold,_ Hongjoong thought.

✣

At the end of September, Hongjoong received a note from Seonghwa after supper. It was slid under his door, carefully creased.

_Bring yourself and your brilliant mind to my room. -S_

Hongjoong did just that, except his mind didn’t feel quite as brilliant and Seonghwa seemed to think it was.

Seonghwa emerged from the adjacent washroom, hair damp and clinging to his forehead, white tunic translucent at the back. Hongjoong’s eyes widened, but Seonghwa’s voice stopped him before he could turn away. “Ah, Hongjoong. I trust you ate well.”

“Ah, yes, Y—err, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa chuckled at that. “You still wish to call me that.”

“It’s n-not that I _wish_ to. Call it a habit.” Hongjoong laughed awkwardly.

Seonghwa stepped towards him, the scent of lavender and mint overtaking the air. Hongjoong felt like he was drowning again.

“Break the habit, Hongjoong.”

Seonghwa was _close_ , so close that the aroma was Hongjoong’s eyes drooping instead of widening. Right in front of him stood the sun, radiant and beautiful and _blinding._

“When we are together… call me by my name.”

“S-Seonghwa.”

The Prince smiled softly and nodded approvingly. Their toes were touching.

“Hongjoong. The center of a wide, wide world.” Two of Seonghwa’s fingers positioned themselves under Hongjoong’s chin, tilting it up, and Hongjoong’s body flooded. Drowned. Evaporated. He swallowed thickly, his heart thudding to an inaudible metronome in the middle of a storm.

When Seonghwa’s lips finally met his, he nearly collapsed into those cold arms. Seonghwa held him again, sturdy arms bracing his waist.

“Hongjoong.” Seonghwa sounded breathless. “I am absolutely taken with you.”

 _Please don’t do this to me,_ Hongjoong pleaded to his mind, melting in Seonghwa’s arms.

_Please do not let me be devoured by the sun._

✣

 _Forgive me._ _  
_ _The sun was too powerful,_ _  
_ _engulfing me in light_ _  
_ _and comfort_ _  
_ _and belonging._ _  
_ _I tried. I did._ _  
_ _I tried._ _  
_ _I tried,_ _  
_ _and failed_ _  
_ _to conquer the sun._ _  
_ _I am not the center of my world;_ _  
_ _The sun is, through and through._

✣

In October, Seonghwa brought a bottle of something red. Wine, Hongjoong deduced from the times he’d seen it drunk at the galas. He hadn’t tried it because the food and water was enough, but when it was Seonghwa offering it to him in the secrecy of his own bedroom, how could Hongjoong refuse?

It wasn’t exactly pleasant, the bitter-tasting juice stinging his taste buds. He could feel his face shriveling up at the taste, but Seonghwa laughed at him enough to make him laugh at himself too. He downed the rest of it without a second thought, pushing past the final stretch of rancid taste to get to the good.

The good was the warmth. The warmth that came with having his blood pumping and the sun cradling him beneath the covers.

It rained that night too. A tepid pattering on the palace roof as Hongjoong gazed into the blue of Seonghwa’s eyes, the reflection of the night sky.

“Hongjoong… you truly are the center of everything. You should see yourself, how the moonlight bends for you.”

Hongjoong turned around and tried to see what Seonghwa was talking about, but the Prince only laughed. And in turn, Hongjoong laughed too.

And there he was, a world stuck in the sun’s orbit, turning, revolving, living, and dying.

Seonghwa kissed him again, and there he fell from the sky while his head hung in the clouds.

✣

“When was the day of your birth?” Seonghwa asked.

“I don’t know.”

Seonghwa sighed and rested a hand on Hongjoong’s shoulder. “I guess I should have expected that answer.”

Hongjoong laughed bitterly. “It is like you said, in the end, it would be just another day.”

“A day that someone as brilliant as you came to be the center of the world.” Seonghwa began moving his hand in small, comforting circles. “Let us make a day for you.”

“Please don’t tell me we’re going to have a gala for it. I do not enjoy them much, if I’m being honest.”

Seonghwa smiled. His hand migrated to the back of Hongjoong’s neck, squeezing softly. “So I’ve noticed.”

Seonghwa kissed him again. And again.

Hongjoong conceded. It was time for him to make way for the sun.

And as Seonghwa’s tongue brushed against his bottom lip, he thought to himself that even if a celebration were to be held for the imaginary day of his birth, nobody would attend, for he wasn’t worth a single glimmer upon their clothes.

✣

That day came in November. The clouds blocked the sun in the sky, but Seonghwa was with him the entire day, reading in the library in the afternoon and kissing him in the safety of his chambers at night.

Seonghwa turned their bodies over and kissed down it, igniting Hongjoong’s skin and sending sparks of pleasure down every nerve. He gasped, back arching off the bed as Seonghwa nipped at his bare hip bones, still so skinny and protruding, but it wasn’t as nearly as bad as it had been before. Seonghwa hooked Hongjoong’s legs over his shoulders, lips closing over the thin skin of his inner thighs.

Hongjoong had never been so bare in front of another person before, but his mind was so clouded, head still hanging in the sky, that for several moments under the moon, he could forget that he was ever alone in the first place.

“The center of my world,” Seonghwa whispered. “The center of my wide, tumultuous world.”

“Seonghwa…”

“Forgive me… I have never touched anybody like this,” Seonghwa murmured above his belly.

“You haven’t?”

The Prince shook his head. “There was never anybody I desired like this.” He ran his tongue down again, and Hongjoong’s head traveled back to the stars.

_Wanted. Desired._

Hongjoong was too lost in a world of his own to worry about desires. His worries consisted of what he would eat, how he could get by. But under satin and velvet and the finest cotton, he felt every worry lift off his shoulders as the Prince kissed him over and over and over.

 _My body belongs to you_ , Hongjoong thought as Seonghwa took him in his mouth.

✣

December was ruthless, its merciless frigid winds wreaking havoc on the long-gone meadow more so than the snow. Hongjoong shivered no matter how many layers he was buried under, clothes or blankets, he could not stop shaking. Even when Seonghwa held him, he trembled.

“I’m s-sorry,” he whispered, bottom lip quivering, just like the rest of him. “I am so weak.”

“It’s okay, Hongjoong. You have been through hell and back. It’s okay.”

Even when Seonghwa kissed him, Hongjoong was still cold. It warmed him up only the slightest bit, not enough to stop the tremors.

“Talk to me,” Seonghwa breathed.

“Through hell and back,” Hongjoong began.

 _Through hell and back,_ _  
_ _over streams and rocks and sodden grass,_ _  
_ _through moribund trees and winding_ _  
_ _fields of their pained and beautiful leaves,_ _  
_ _I wandered for an infinity_ _  
_ _with words on my back,_ _  
_ _alone and rigid._ _  
_ _The sun never shined,_ _  
_ _the rain never stopped,_ _  
_ _and I cracked as the land shook._

✣

The new year began and Hongjoong didn’t even know, not when Seonghwa made love to him every night. His conscience was long gone and the warmth returned to him when Seonghwa rocked into him, moving those sinful hips expertly as he whispered everything sweet in the world beside Hongjoong’s ear. Almost every night was like that; Seonghwa held him tight and kissed him hard.

“My love,” Seonghwa exhaled as Hongjoong circled his hips above him.

_Love._

The word replayed in Hongjoong’s mind, racing around his brain in constant circles. Even when everything was done, the ghost of the word lingered.

_Love love love._

“What is it?” Hongjoong asked.

“What is what?”

“Love?”

Seonghwa paused for longer than Hongjoong would have liked. His fingers curled around Hongjoong’s wrists, squeezing in a fashion that might have been reassuring. Or uncertain.

“When the flowers bloom in spring,” Seonghwa said, “we welcome them. We might not watch the process as it happens, for it is slow and humans are impatient. Love is the opposite of that, I think. Where we want to watch the flowers grow no matter how long it takes.”

 _But everything that lives, dies,_ Hongjoong thought.

He didn’t say it out loud. His head hurt and his muscles ached and he wanted to sleep, but the shivers were returning, so he curled up in Seonghwa’s arms again and shut his eyes tight, feeling an enormous flower writhing in his chest.

Its stems and leaves and vines circled around his heart menacingly in a green, thorny cage, closing in, and suffocating the delicate vessel.

✣

 _Love is patient, love is kind._ _  
_ _I read these words in a book once_ _  
_ _not knowing what they meant_ _  
_ _for the only patience and kindness I knew_ _  
_ _came from a man now buried deep in the ground_ _  
_ _whose words remain mere whispers_ _  
_ _and gusts of wind in my head._ _  
_ _The sun is still shining,_ _  
_ _still bright and blazing,_ _  
_ _and I am still cold,_ _  
_ _still shivering and pathetic._ _  
_ _There is a flower inside me,_ _  
_ _trying to bloom_ _  
_ _but it is suffocating me_ _  
_ _so I suffocate it back._ _  
_ _Cold. Cold. Cold._

✣

The first time Hongjoong saw tears in Seonghwa’s eyes was sometime in January. The silver moonlight cast a blue hue across his entire body, including his eyes. He wept into Hongjoong’s hair, his own body shivering along.

“My love,” he said shakily, pulling away. Hongjoong gazed into those mesmerizing eyes, tinted blue with wintery ice.

“My love,” Hongjoong whispered back.

“I wish your tremors would go away.”

Hongjoong wished the same. But he had a feeling that they wished it for different reasons. It must be tiring, holding a dying man close almost every night, losing sleep because he wouldn’t stop shaking until his body was too exhausted to continue. He was an inconvenience, a nuisance.

And yet, Seonghwa continued to slip him notes. They continued to pile higher and higher, until they became grander than Hongjoong’s own collection of works. Hongjoong wondered if this was what love was—the willingness to sit through the coldest winter, frustrated and inconvenienced, to see the world blossom.

_Love is patient, love is kind._

Seonghwa began to cry harder, and Hongjoong couldn’t fathom why. So instead, Hongjoong squeezed him tighter and held the Prince’s head against his chest.

Cold.

✣

_There is something I must discuss with you. Meet me in the library when the moon rises. -S_

Something about the note filled Hongjoong with dread. The note was visibly different, a different scrawl and a different aura. To meet in the library, instead of his chambers. Hongjoong couldn’t figure out why.

So he tiptoed down the hall despite the myriad of staff still wandering about, and in the library stood not Seonghwa, but San.

“San?”

“Ah, Hongjoong.” San turned to him. He looked… troubled. “Thank you for coming.”

“What is the matter? Why did you leave me that note?”

“There is something you need to know, Hongjoong.” San let out a deep breath. “First of all, there are quite a few of us that have picked up on you and the Prince meeting in secret. For what, I do not care for. But… if it for what _I_ think it is, it is important that you know of the Prince’s other affairs.”

Hongjoong frowned. “Other… affairs?”

“There is no easy way to tell you this, Hongjoong. Prince Seonghwa is to marry a Princess from a neighboring kingdom. His father is returning to the kingdom within a month’s time, and arrangements will be made. There will be a ceremony and celebration and everything.”

Hongjoong’s eyes bulged out of his head, the flower in his heart shriveling into nothingness.

“You… jest.”

San shook his head slowly, sadly. He, too, looked distraught.

“H-how long has this arrangement been in the works?”

San tilted his head. “Hongjoong, this arrangement has been in place since the day His Highness was born. Nobody knew what exact day it would be… but as it turns out, one of the affairs the King was handling was the logistics of kingdoms’ alliance after His Highness is married.”

_Married. Loved. Love. Love. Married. Marriage. Princess. Celebration. Ceremony. Marriage._

Hongjoong’s head was a storm of the same words, clashing and colliding into one another. His mouth opened and closed, throat constricted, as he gasped and spluttered for cohesive words to come out.

San sighed. “Yunho and I… we noticed you and the Prince growing closer. Yunho even saw you disappear into His Highness’s room on multiple occasions, which is something that _nobody_ , no matter how high of a position, would do on such a regular basis. And while I do not care for what occurs between you two behind closed doors, I believe that this is something you need to be aware of.” His eyes squeezed shut. “And even if it costs me my life, divulging such information to you, I will accept it.”

“Why?” Hongjoong finally spoke. “Why risk your life telling me something like this?”

“Because the Prince would not, Hongjoong. He fears losing you. If he were to tell you this, you would certainly distance yourself from him. It would be unfair to you and whatever relationship you have with him. He… might have even cut ties with you entirely instead of telling you directly.”

“He would… he would tell me!”

“He would not, Hongjoong. He fears abandonment. If he were to be separated from somebody he cares about, he would want it to be on his own terms. Trust me, I have known the Prince since we were children.”

Hongjoong reeled back. “I still… I still do not understand why you would risk your life.”

San smiled sadly.

“It is for the same reason you would, Hongjoong.”

✣

A note was slid under Hongjoong’s door that night. He watched the gap beneath the door, watched until the light was snuffed out, watched the note as it laid face down on the ground, ignored.

The night was pitch black. The trembling didn’t stop.

✣

Hongjoong didn’t leave his room. Perhaps the Prince got the message, since after the fourth night, the notes stopped appearing. He lay on his bed most days, occasionally opening the door the food that San snuck him for dinner. It was the only meal he ate. The food started to feel like rocks in his gut again.

There was one day where the commotion outside his door didn’t cease. He shut his eyes and drowned the noise out, assuming that maybe, the King had returned. Not that he cared that much.

Nobody, no matter what title they had, had any reign over him.

He belonged to nobody and nothing.

The King probably didn’t know of his existence. To him, Hongjoong’s room was probably just another place in the palace, occupied or not, that he overlooked and didn’t care for because there were maids for that. Hongjoong didn’t care in the slightest that the King didn’t know about his existence, for that was how it had always been.

Hongjoong lost track of the days and the feeling in his fingertips. They’d gone so numb, just like the rest of him, that the tremors didn’t feel like tremors anymore—just an incessant ache that he could feel down to his bones, like he was a pitiful tree just waiting to die, but something cruel in the universe wouldn’t let him.

Was Seonghwa patient? Was Seonghwa kind? When Hongjoong thought about it, perhaps he was. When Seonghwa held him at night, he waited until Hongjoong fell asleep, until the tremors stopped. He shed tears for Hongjoong until his eyes were icy and glossed over. He tried to shatter his own rhetoric, that Hongjoong was a peasant and their class was what separated them. He managed to evoke words out of Hongjoong just like _that_ , like it was the easiest thing in the world to do.

Did Seonghwa truly love him? Or was he a phantom of Hongjoong’s snow-ridden dreams?

Perhaps that was why he was always so cold.

✣

It was Yunho who finally managed to coax Hongjoong out of his room, with sweet, warm words of comfort and sympathy, and while Hongjoong abhorred the light that seeped into his room, he opened the door all the way for Yunho, only to feel that same dread consume him at the sight of the Prince standing right beside him.

“Hongjoong.” Seonghwa’s tone was firm and steady.

“Yunho, why on earth would you—”

“He was insistent, Hongjoong. You two need to talk.” And with that, the sunshiney Yunho walked off in stride.

Begrudgingly, Hongjoong stepped aside to let the dark angel in, but as soon as the door was closed, Seonghwa simply leaned up against it.

“Why, Hongjoong? Why did you start snubbing me all of a sudden?” Seonghwa asked.

Hongjoong closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, ignoring the snowflakes that coated his lungs. He couldn’t betray San. He couldn’t be the reason for San’s potential punishment.

“Word travels easily in a place that echoes such as this,” Hongjoong mumbled vaguely. Seonghwa looked away. “So why didn’t you tell me that you were destined to love somebody else?”

Seonghwa grimaced. “Hongjoong, it is out of my control. You know that.”

“Do I, _Your Highness_? Do I _really_ know that? It is as you said, we come from two different worlds. No matter what I am dressed in, I will always be the peasant, and you will always be the Prince. You may not have control over who you marry, but you have control over so much else.”

“Hongjoong, you don’t know a damn thing.”

“I don’t _have_ to!” Tears were welling up in his eyes once more. His voice cracked and trembled, just like his body. “From the very beginning, you _knew_ that whatever happened between us would be nothing. You knew that the intimate time we spent together was moot because this marriage was your destiny from the start. And yet, you continued to hold me and kiss me and made me believe that _maybe_ I could belong somewhere. But it was all pointless, wasn’t it?”

Seonghwa would not meet his eyes. Fury continued to roil within him, his chest tightening, teeth grinding. Words came flying at his brain in chaotic bursts instead of serene streams as tears poured from his eyes.

“I belong to _nobody_ , Your Highness. And it will stay that way until the day I die.”

“I never once said you belonged to me,” Seonghwa muttered. “You think this is easy for me? You think I want to marry somebody I barely know? I _love_ you, Hongjoong, in a way I could never love this woman.”

“But you could, Your Highness,” Hongjoong argued. “You _could_ love this woman, and you cannot deny that possibility. You _could_ love anybody else in this world because I am not the only one. I am not the only one with these words because these words do not belong to me. I am not the only one who can tell you the things you wished to hear growing up. You could belong to _anybody_ , Your Highness.”

Seonghwa’s eyes flared, indignance flashing beneath those irises, but Hongjoong couldn’t bring himself to care.

“You could love anybody,” he whimpered.

“Love isn’t something you choose, Hongjoong. If I had the choice, I would spend the rest of my days with you.”

_Enough._

“The thing is, Your Highness, you have a choice in everything you do.” He sighed. “But I understand. You may not choose who you love, but you choose how many days you spent your time with someone. You choose how often you embrace them or kiss them. And you choose whether or not you tell someone that you are bound to someone else from the start.”

Seonghwa’s lips parted in a silent gasp before his entire face fell altogether, eyes softening, _tired._ It was _tiring_ , loving someone like Hongjoong. Hongjoong understood. It was why he never bothered loving himself.

“There is… a gala to be held in March,” Seonghwa said slowly. “The neighboring kingdom will be attending. It would… mean a lot if you come.”

“Why on earth would I do something as foolish as that?” Hongjoong spat.

Seonghwa let out a sigh through his nose.

“It is the last thing I will ask of you, Hongjoong.”

And with that, the Prince turned on his heels and disappeared into the halls. The lights seemed to fade behind him.

✣

Hongjoong got ready with the help of Yunho and San. They patted powder on his face to mask his exhaustion, but nothing could hide the oversized monstrosity of the outfit, because Hongjoong was so skinny once again. It was the same blazer he’d worn to his first gala, but it left such a wide gap between it and his arm that it did nothing to keep him warm.

“What month is it?” Hongjoong asked. A drizzle began outside.

“March,” San answered, monotone.

“Has it been that long?” Hongjoong wondered to himself.

An entire year since Hongjoong’s life turned on its axis and irrevocably changed.

“It seems,” San said. He finished the last few buttons on Hongjoong’s blazer and gripped his shoulders, wider from the padding. “Are you truly up to this, Hongjoong? The Prince wouldn’t hold it against you if you didn’t attend.”

Hongjoong’s eyes fluttered shut as he released a breath. “It is the last thing he will ask of me.”

Biting his lip, San nodded, and he, Hongjoong, and Yunho made their way to the grand hall, where throngs of people had already gathered. A semi-familiar sight. The last gala Hongjoong had attended was in August. For all he knew, more could’ve been held since then.

He sat at his designated table alongside Yunho and San. Yeosang, Wooyoung, Jongho, and Mingi were there as well, background characters in the story of Hongjoong’s life, offering him halfhearted waves and smiles before resuming their conversations. What those conversations were about, Hongjoong didn’t notice or care. He stared straight down at his plate, cleaned white to perfection. There were food platters catered to every table, and Hongjoong watched as they were placed before his eyes, steamingly fresh. It made his stomach churn.

“Hongjoong,” Yunho whispered, nudging his side. It felt like an icicle through his ribs.

“I’m okay,” Hongjoong whispered back.

He wasn’t, and surely Yunho knew that, but the royal advisor simply nodded and turned his attention back to his plate.

Sitting through the dinner was excruciating. Hongjoong’s plate remained bare throughout it all; he only opted for a few sips of water here and there. Everything in him was screaming, _get out of there, get out get out get out._ But this was Seonghwa’s last wish, Hongjoong had to remind himself.

The angel who started and ended it all.

Hongjoong didn’t look up once, that is, until there was a familiar clinking and the ominous hush of the crowd. Bigger this time around, he noticed. Right, there were two kingdoms attending, because this was the union of two people, a Prince and his destined Princess, bound from the beginning. Even as the years passed and seasons changed, _this_ was Prince Park Seonghwa’s destiny.

The Prince looked as dashing as ever, his suit crimson red, garnished in gold tassels and badges and insignias. And on his arm stood a Princess, whose name Hongjoong never learned or cared to learn, in a gold gown that trailed behind her as the two proceeded with their showcase down the hall. The two kingdoms erupted in applause and cheers for the newly engaged, and Hongjoong felt like he might be sick.

They were so beautiful, with their gaudiness and angelic charm, red cheeks and lined eyes. And this time, they were _crowned_ , the ultimate symbol of royalty, shiny rings placed upon their heads and fingers.

Prince Seonghwa and the unnamed Princess waved at the crowds who tossed flower petals above them, as if they had just gotten _actually_ married. A rainbow of colors for the Prince and his destined love.

Hongjoong watched in complete silence, hands clenched by his sides.

When Seonghwa’s eyes met his for the briefest moment, Hongjoong felt his entire world crumble. His smile vanished for the shortest amount of time humanly possible, those wide eyes lost and loved, before he turned away and smiled again, waving to those who loved him because he kept them employed, protected, and warm.

As if Hongjoong was a mere shadow, he swiftly whirled around, his ears ringing with the applause of strangers, and _ran._

Perhaps he heard a calling of his name. Who the voice belonged to, he didn’t know. Perhaps he and his pathetic body bumped into a few strangers along the way, but it was nothing in comparison to the bitter cold eating away at him from the inside out. He rammed into the alternate exit of the main hall, glancing back over his shoulder one last time to see an angel, poised and faceless, a blazing star in the middle of a world too bright for him.

His lungs burned and his stomach cried for help but he ran and ran and ran, bunching his papers into the pockets of his blazer before using the last of his strength to push past the palace doors. The guards knew not who he was. To them, he was probably still a peasant, and now a madman, as he sprinted away from safety in the pouring rain, tired and _alone_ , soaked through to his very being.

The palace shrunk as he got further and further away, further away from his second beginning, the angel, the sun, and into the rain, the one thing that stayed with him no matter what season it was.

✣

 _April is the cruelest month;_ _  
_ _the rain is relentless, merciless, and cold_ _  
_ _and flowers struggle to worm_ _  
_ _their way out of the frost._ _  
_ _The winter months were cold_ _  
_ _but at least there was warmth_ _  
_ _under the sun,_ _  
_ _under the sheets._ _  
_ _The autumn months were pained,_ _  
_ _and leaves died and fluttered to the ground_ _  
_ _and people marveled at their suffering_ _  
_ _but at least they were adored_ _  
_ _and gazed upon lovingly._ _  
_ _The summer months were dazzling,_ _  
_ _the meadow flourished and thrived_ _  
_ _and rain was scarce_ _  
_ _but the sun was too hot_ _  
_ _and my skin was set ablaze._ _  
_ _The spring_ _  
_ _was cruel in unspeakable ways_ _  
_ _taunting with hope_ _  
_ _because sometimes_ _  
_ _the flowers do not bloom at all_ _  
_ _the rain becomes too much_ _  
_ _and death is meaningless_ _  
_ _when everything stays drowned._ _  
_ _And April marks the day_ _  
_ _that an angel fell from heaven,_ _  
_ _gleaming and golden_ _  
_ _lonely but loved._ _  
_ _The month was cruel to the both of us_ _  
_ _but the rain stayed with me_ _  
_ _looming and dark._ _  
_ _Both are dead to me  
and I find I do not miss him much._

✣

There is a river bordered by mountains of stones and lush greenery that splits the land into what Hongjoong calls the “In-Between.” Where the land of royals and the land of the peasants merge but not entirely. Where there is a town home to those who belong to neither side, littered with gardens and huts and cheerful children frolicking about. Hongjoong is one who has traversed all three lands, an estranged traveler of sorts, though his titles have certainly changed over the moons.

He had his second beginning on the edge of that river, when a nameless man discovered his works by chance, random words placed meticulously next to each other on scraps of paper with faded ink. When he thinks about it, perhaps the words he writes mean nothing. They are just words, after all, words that anybody could say and write down in the exact same order with the exact same thoughts.

Soundless, meaningless words that don’t belong to him and never will.

So he sits at the edge of the river as the rain seeps into his pants, torn at the calves, engulfing them, engulfing him, pages scattered about the land as his words bleed into the ground.

Perhaps the black ink will pool at the center of the world, and he will become one with it, and live up to his name.

✣

 _The world I was on versus the world I was in,_ _  
_ _The eye in the cycle of belonging_ _  
_ _where nothing belonged to me_ _  
_ _and I belonged to nothing._ _  
_ _O, worlds! Where is my body?_ _  
_ _It was mine, was it not?_ _  
_ _O, worlds! Where is my name?_ _  
_ _I was led to believe it was mine!_ _  
_ _But in the end_ _  
_ _I was still nothing, nothing, nothing._ _  
_ _The world I was on,_ _  
_ _the world I was in_ __  
_did not exist_  
_for I was always nothing._

**Author's Note:**

> well uhhh... sorry?
> 
> i hope you enjoyed. i put a lot of work into this one, and it definitely came out longer than i expected lol.
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated as always! thank you for reading :)  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/galaxysangs)


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